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Letters  and  Opinions  of 
the   We^ern   Press 

—  Of — 

'The  Heart  of  the  Hills" 

and  Other  Poems 


San  Francisco  Chronicle 
Jack  London 
George  Sterling 

Arthur  Ju^n  Stephens 
Ina  Coolbrith 
Anna  M.  Reed 
Tom  Brown 

May  S.  Greenwood 

Au^in  Hall 


Grover  C.  McGimpsey  has  all  the  rapturous  admira- 
tion for  beauty  in  man  and  nature  which  mark  the  true 
poet.  He  is  yet  young  in  the  practice  of  his  art,  but  there 
is  no  deficiency  in  form  and  technique,  which  is  not  more 
than  compensated  for  by  a  genuinely  aesthetic  spirit.  He 
is  warbling  his  native  woodnotes  wild  in  most  of  the  com- 
positions, and  is  his  natural  and  distinctive  self  in  all  things 
save  those  in  which  he  is  voicing  appreciation  of  things 
read.  When  he  reads  directly  from  the  book  of  nature 
his  muse  has  not  the  slightest  trace  of  artificiality. 
Though  a  small  book,  "The  Heart  of  the  Hills"  has  many 
forms  and  themes.  If  anything  he  is  at  his  best  when 
scoring  the  regularities  of  form  and  it  is  this  which  justi- 
fies the  opinion  that  his  work  is  full  of  promise.  Those 
who  believe  that  it  is  a  good  thing  to  patronize  the  singer 
at  their  own  doors  would  do  well  to  support  this  first  pro- 
duction of  one  who  may  yet  be  recognized  as  a  poetic  gen- 
ius by  an  American  audience.  Ukiah,  Cal.  Northern 
Crown  Publishing  Company;  price  $1.)  San  Francisco 
Chronicle,  Oct.  8,  1916. 


Jack  London 
Glen   Ellen,  Sonoma  Co. 
U.  S.  A. 

Nov.  6,  1916. 
Dear  Grover  C.  McGimsey: 

Have  just  finished  enjoying  your  "Heart  of  the  Hills." 
You  certainly  know  and  love  your  California  in  the 
open,  and  have  proved  that  you  know  how  to  "say  your 
say,"  beautifully  on  the  subject. 

When  I  get  back  from  New  York,  the  first  part  of 
next  year,  I  should  be  glad  to  have  you  pull  the  ranch 
latch  string  and  give  me  a  chance  to  get  acquainted  with 
you.  Sincerely, 

Jack  London 


San  Francisco,  Oct.  9,  1916. 

There  is  much  that  is  true,  and  sweet  and  wholesome 
in  your  book.  Your  early  devotion  to  nature  in  her  nobler 
moods  will  have  a  tendency  to  sweeten  and  energize  your 
maturer  work. 

Of  the  seventeen  poems,  I  like  best  "The  way  of  the 
Waste."  It  is  grimmer  and  truer  than  the  others.  "Be- 
cause of  Grief"  is  sheer  poetry,  and  Vd  love  to  see  you  do- 
ing more  of  the  same  kind. 

George  Sterling 


Los  Angeles,  Oct.  10,  1916. 
Dear  McGimsey: 

Like  a  fragrant  breath  from  the  mountain  pines  comes 
"The  Heart  of  the  Hills'  and  I  hope  that  with  the  wide 
circulation  that  it  deserves,  it  will  give  a  great  many  as 
much  pleasure  as  it  has  given  me.  It  contains  a  number 
of  beautiful  themes  and  they  have  surely  been  wrought 
by  a  true  lover  of  nature  -  the  big  out  doors.  A  man  who 
loves  the  tang  of  the  campfire,  who  relishes  his  bacon  and 
flapjacks,  and  can  rollhimself  in  a  blanket  and  sleep  with 
the  stars  looking  on! 

Arthur  Justin  Stephens 


San  Francisco,  Nov.  20,  1916. 
Grover  C.  McGimsey: 

I   have  read  your  poems  with  pleasure.    A   pleasure 
because  such  poetry  can  show  no  signs  of  diminishing. 

Ina  Coolbrith 


The  Examinei 

Sacramento,  Nov.  2,  1916. 
I  have  read  McGimsey's  poems,  and  I  agree  with  the 
press  reviews  that  his  work  has  not  the  slightest  trace  of 
artificiality,  and  that  it  is  full  of  promise. 

Tom  Brown 


Ukiah,  Cal.,  Dec.  14,  1916. 
I  have  read  the  "Heart  of  the  Hills"  with  keen  de- 
light. Mr.  McGimsey  is  a  spirit  of  light  rising  in  a  realm 
of  wonderful  profoundness.  He  has  hit  the  real  poetry— 
a  thing  of  beauty  and  a  picture  perfect.  To  the  music  of 
words  he  gives  nature's  setting.  We  have  had  enough 
of  hyming  philosophers  and  need  a  light— here  he  is. 
L  Austin  Hall 


"With  joy  I  herald  a  newministrel  at  the  portals  of 
your  palacG  of  dreams;  not  a  minstrel  with  a  song  for  his 
fellow-dreamers,  but  with  songs  for  the  heart  of  all  people 
in  the  world."  1.  ^JM ay  S.  Greenwood 


The  tribute  to  Jack  London  by  Grover  C.  McGimsey, 
soon  to  appear  in  pamphlet  form,  is  a  masterpiece,  and 
will  live  as  long  as  the  memory  of  Jack  London  lives  in  the 
heart  of  the  people.  Anna  M.  Reed 

In  December  Northern  Crown 


tm  l)(<irt  of  m  Rills 
and  Other  Poems 


By  dtmr  e.  inc6im$er 


Drawings  by  l)op< 


Fttbllsbed  by  tDe  nortDern  Crown  PublfiMng  Co. 
mn\),  ealifornia 

1916. 


fi 


/d'-s      Copyright  1916 
By  Crover  C.  McGimsey 
All  Rights  Reserved 


(',270i 


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^ 


To 

Oeorge  Sterling 

With  profound  admiration  for  his  genius. 


PREFACE 


/T  is  always  a  pleasant  task  to  welcome  something 
new  to  the  world,  something  sweet  and  fresh 
from  the  hands  of  genius,  yet  my  task  has  an 
added  charm,  making  it  fairer  still;  I  am  bringing 
you  an  old  friend  in  new  guise,  a  minstrel^  (in 
printer's  ink)  to  sing  for  you  of  the  width  of  the 
desert  places,  and  bring  the  faint  haze  of  the  farth- 
est star  close  for  you. 

Balzac  tells  us  that  genius  is  spendthrift  and 
profligate,  but  in  this  century  when  genius  has  so 
successfully  conspired  with  success,  we  forget  these 
grumblings  of  a  past  century,  and  rejoice  in  its 
well-earned  triumphs. 

Therefore,  with  joy  I  herald  a  new  minstrel  at 
the  portals  of  your  palace  ef  dreams;  not  a  min- 
strel with  a  song  for  his  fellow-dreamers,  but  with 
songs  for  the  heart  of  all  peoples  in  the  world, 
songs  to  take  you  far  afield — alone  with  thebreath 
of  night — an  atom  in  an  injlnity  of  understand- 
ing. 

May  S.    Greenwood 


^ 


CONTENTS 


The  Heart  of  the  Hills 7 

God  and  Man's  Land 9 

The  Rhythm  of  the  Sea 12 

Your  Land  of  a  Thousand  Dreams 13 

When  I  am  Old 14 

To  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 15 

Because  of  Grief 16 

The  Heart  of  a  Little  Child 17 

Trails 18 

The  California  Hills 21 

Lines  to  Stevenson 22 

Lincoln 23 

The  Call  of  the  Wind 24 

The  Fruitage  of  War 25 

Three  Contemporaries 26 

Man 27 

The  Way  of  the  Waste 29 


r^i 


I; 


AM  lonesome  today  for  the  heart  of  the 
hills, 

Where  the  birds  sing  merrily; 

For  the  heart  of    the   hills,  where  the 
lonesome  pines 
And  the  old  trails  beckon  me! 
1  am  lonesome  too,  for  the  willow's  breath 
On  the  stream  where  the  shadows  lie; 
For  the  rocks,  the  trees,  and  a  shady  nook 
*Neath  the  summer's  balmy  sky; 
So  why  should  I  linger  amid^  a  crowd 
Of  toilers  burdened  with  care, 
When  there's  life,  and  laughter,  and  heaven 

enough 
In  the  heart  of  the  hills  up  there? 


Kh 


When  there's  life,  and  laughter,  and  time  to 

breathe 
Away  from  the  hives  of  men; 
And  a  thousand  hours  of  changing  dreams 
To  drown  one's  trouble  in? 
I  am  lonesome  today  for  the  heart  of  the  hills. 
Where  the  fragrant  lilies  grow; 
For  the  heart  of  the  hills  where  the  wooing 

winds 
And  the  gentle  zephyrs  blow; 
1  am  lonesome  too,  for  the  lone  wren's  cry. 
And  the  song  of  the  oriole; 
For  the  moss,  the  ferns,  and  the  alder  boughs 
O'erhanging  a  water  hole. 
So  why  should  I  linger  admi^  a  crowd 
Of  toilers  burdened  with  care, 
When  there's  life,  and  laughter,  and  heaven 

enough 
In  the  heart  of  the  hills  up  there? 
When  there's  life  and  laughter,  and  ease  of 

soul. 
In  the  shadows  beneath  a  pine. 
And  time  for   the  dreaming   of   worth-while 

dreams 
In  the  heart  o'  the  hills  o'  mine? 
I  am  lonesome  today  for  the  heart  of  the  hills. 
Where  the  white  clouds  float  at  dawn; 
For  the  heart  of  the  hills  where    the    open 

trails 
Lead  on — and  on — and  on. 
I  am  lonesome  too,  for  the  fern-^rewn  glades. 
Where  sheltered,  the  wild  deer  roam; 
Yes,  lonesome,  and  wanting,    and    needing, 

friend; 
The  heart  of  the  hills  and  homel 
So  why  should  I  linger  admi^  a  crowd 
Of  toilers  burdened  with  care, 
When  there's  life  and   laughter  and,   heaven 

enough 

(8) 


In  the  heart  of  the  hills  up  there? 

When  there's  life,  and  laughter,  and   time  to 

kneel 
On  the  soft,  unbroken  sod; 
And  to  feel  in  the  rustling  of  the  leaves 
The  peace  and  the  power  of  God? 


God  ana  man's  Cand 


HERE'S  a  place  a-way  out  yonder 

'Neath  the  soft,  eternal  hills 

Where  a  man  can  re^  in  comfort  and 
in  ease; 

Where  a  man  can  watch  the  wild  flowers 
Springing  from  the  grass-grown  glades. 
And  can   scent    the    rose  and    lilac  on    the 

breeze. 
Where  a  man  can  find  his  heaven 
In  the  ^udy  of  a  leaf; 

And  his  worship  in  the  ^illness  of  the  day; 
For  its  God  and  man's  land,  "Pardner," 
There  along  the  river's  bend 
Where  you  see  the  blue  sky  blending  into 

gray; 
God  and  man's  land,  where  the  ripple 
And  the  tossing  of  the  grain. 
Brings  back  memories  of  childhood, 
And  the  warmth  of  tears  again. 

(9) 


Cbe  trail  of  m  Kortb 


AVE  you  ever  been  on  the  trail  of  the 
North— 

The  trail  by  the  silent  Yukon, 

Where  a  heavy  blanket  of  snow  is  laid 
On  all  that  you  gaze  upon? 
And  have  you  felt  that  strange,  weird  call 
Which  draws  you  into  the  night — 
Which  calls  you  and  leaves  you  a  wanderer 
Where  the  river's  rim  is  white? 
If  you  have,  then  you  know  what  the  North 

is  like; 
And  you'll  want  to  go  back  someday 
To  your  friends,  to  your  foes,  and  the  frozen 

fields 
Where  the  caribou  treads  its  way. 
For  the  lure  of  the  North  sits  on  a  man 
Like  the  memory  of  waving  pines; 
And  alway,  it  seems,  he  wants  the  trail, 

(10) 


And  the  gloom  where  the  wolf-dog  whines. 

Have  you  ever  camped  in  that  ice-bound  land 

Of  the  North,  where  the  ^illness  grows, 

*TiIl  it  seems  that  the  whole  wide  universe 

Is  a  spec5lre  of  silent  snows? 

And  have  you  felt  that  deep,  damp  breath 

Which  silvers  the  trailing  vines, 

The  rivers,  the  mountains,  the  fragrant  flowers, 

And  even  the  age-old  pines? 

If  you  have,  then  you  know  what  the    North 

is  like; 
And  you'll  want  to  go  back  someday 
To  skirt  the  lakes  on  the  Dyea  trail 
Out  to  Dawson  or  Skaguay; 
For  the  lure  of  the  north  sits  on  a  man 
Till  like  the  primordial  bea^. 
He  would  trail  again  'neath  the  timbered  hills, 
And  partake  of  the  midnight  fea^. 
Have  you  ever  traveled  that  ice-glazed  trail 
From  Nome  to  the  Behring  sea. 
When  the  wind  at  Candle  ran  eighty-four 
In  weather  at  thirty-three? 
And  have  you  felt  that  awful  pang 
Of  bitterness  in  the  bones. 
One  feels  when  flaying  those  poor,  dumb  brutes 
Who  are  whining  in  monotones? 
If  you  have,  then  you  know  what  the  North 

is  like; 
And  you'll  want  to  go  back  to  play 
With  death,  and  the  blizzards  which    drag 

men  down 
On  the  trail  of  the  Great  White  Way; 
For  the  lure  of  the  North  sits  on  a  man 
Till  it  seems  that  his  very  dreams 
Are  merged  with  the  iridescent  lights. 
The  stars,  and  the  frozen  streams. 
Have   you    ever  known    what   it    means    to 

"mush" 
In  the  snow  when  the  dogs  go  blind. 
From  the  raging  ^orm  which  beats  them  back 

(11) 


From  the  pathway  they  try  to  find? 

And  have  you  felt  that  gruesome  chill 

Which  over  the  land  doth  creep, 

When  the  sun  goes  wallowing  out  for  good 

And  the  river  to  its  long  sleep? 

If  you  have,  then  you  know  what  the  North 

is  like; 
And  you'll  want  to  go  back  someday 
To  travel  again  o*er  the  selfsame  trail, 
In  exa(5lly  the  selfsame  way; 
For  the  lure  of  the  North  sits  on  a  man, 
And  in  spite  of  its  very  hell 
He  will  want  again  the  long,  lone  trail, 
And  the  charms  of  its  awful  spell. 


Cbe  Kbytbm  of  tbe  Sea 


UT  yonder  the  wind  is  blowing, 
And  the  waves  of  the  age-old  sea 
Are   creeping  —  and     creeping  —  and 
creeping 

Up  the  white  sands  easily. 

Are  creeping,  breaking,  receeding, 

'Till  in  rhythm  they  seem  to  say 

We  are  lovers  of  life  and  emotion, 

And  the  tide  of  eternity. 

We  are  restful  at  times,  and  the  passion 

Of  our  soul  ebbs  low,  and  free; 

Like  the  w^ind  on  our  snow-white  bosoms 

Which  blows  so  incessantly. 

And  at  times  we  are  re^less,  and  tossing. 

Impatient,  reckless,  and  wild; 

And  we  moan  on  the  rocks,  like  a  wanderer 

In  search  of  an  only  child. 

(12) 


Vour  Cand  of  a  Cbousand  Dreams 


HAVE  wandered  today  in  fancy  dear 
To  your  land  of  a  thousand  dreams; 
And  heaven  was  mine  for  one  brief 
hour; 
Whil^  I  talked  with  you — so  it  seems. 

One  brief,  brief  hour  of  treasured  time, 
With  nothing  to  mar  or  bless 
My  soul,  but  your  own  warm  hand  in  mine; 
And  your  perfedt  sacredness. 

And  thus  it  was  that  the  daffodils 
Seemed  heaven's  own  pearls  for  me; 
And  your  whisper  fond  the  souFs  caress 
Of  life  in  eternity. 

Life,  life  at  last,  where  hopes  were  new; 
And  heaven  that  perfed:  bliss 
Where  soul  meets  soul  in  unison; 
And  virtue's  eternal  kiss. 

And  taking  your  hand,  (as  I  mu^  some  day;) 
My  friend  of  a  thousand  dreams; 
1  told  you  of  all  this  great  world's  gains; 
And  its  sorrow  too —  it  seems. 

And  trembling,  you  turned,  (as  a  dove  might 

turn) 
To  its  mate,  with  a  song  anew; 
And  I  knew  why   it  was  that   through   life's 

tears, 
God  had  given  me  you — just  you. 


(13) 


mben  T  nm  Old 


to  muir  of  tbc  mountains 


HEN  my  hair  is  touched  with  silver, 
And  my  days  of  youth  are  done, 
And  I  linger  as  a  shadow  on  life's  ^ream. 
Let  me  re^  among  the  mountains 
Where  the  spring-time  flowers  will  keep 
The  silent,  inspiration  of  my  dream. 

Let  me  sit  among  the  shadows 

Of  the  ash  trees  on  the  hill, 

Where  the  brown  leaves  ever  ru^le  in  the 

dawn; 
Let  me  turn  my  eyes  to  heaven. 
And  my  thoughts  to  earth  and  friends. 
Ere  my  soul  seeks  yet  its  mission  farther  on. 

Let  me  listen  to  the  murmur 

Of  the  pines,  and  let  me  hear 

The  music  of  the  ever-rippling  breams; 

Let  me  scent  the  fragrant  odor 

Of  the  hawthorne  and  the  rose, 

And  renew  again  life's  old,  familiar  dreams. 

Let  me  climb  those  rugged  mountains 

Where  the  vulture  makes  his  home 

In  the  cliffs  beneath  the   gnarled  and  ^orm- 

tossed  trees; 
Let  me  drink  from  those  cool  ^reamlets. 
Fed  by  snow,  and  let  me  feel 
The  coolness  of  the  summer  s  balmy  breeze,. 

Let  me  find  the  ^rength  of  virtue 

In  the  breath  of  every  flower. 

And  a  place  where  1  can  re^,  when  I  am  old; 

For  I'll  soon  be  growing  weary 

Of  this  Grange  world's  my^ic  lure, 

And  be  losing  every  treasure  which  I  hold, 

(14) 


So  when  I  have  dreamed  and  left  you 

On  the  sunny  slope  of  life, 

And  my  hair  is  touched  with  silver,  like  the 

snow; 
Let  me  be  alone  with  nature 
In  the  bosom  of  the  hills, 
Where  the  changing  winds  of  mercy  ever  blow. 


Co  Dante  6dbriel  Ro$$etti 


HERE  can  one  find  in  all  the  realms  of 

art- 
Save  in  the  work  of  Michael  Angelo, 
A  canvas  so  appealing  to  the  heart 
As  thine,  on  which  there  re^s  a  mellow  glow? 
Where  any  painting — save  from  Raphael, 
Compared  in  softness  to  the  color  scheme 
YouVe  used  so  deftly  in  the  "Damosel,** 
"The    Bride,"    "Pandora,"    and    in     "Dante*s 

Dream?" 
Where    in     the      world's     collections — time 

essayed, 
A  poem  greater  than  your  * 'Staff  and  Scrip?" 
A  ballad  with  such  depth  of  soul  portrayed 
As  in  your  masterpiece:     "The  White  Ship?" 
Where  e*en  from  Shakspeare,  such  inspiring 

lines 
As  those  from     that    immortal    song,  "The 
Cloud  Confines?" 

(15) 


Because  of  6rief 


T  MAY  have  been  that  bitterly, 
We  in  the  pa^  have  suffered  grief; 
Have  suffered  in  the  souFs  relief 
Of  piteous,  human  agony. 

It  may  have  been  that  love  grew  cold 
Where  love  was  needed  to  endure; 
Where  love  was  needed  to  insure 
A  heaven  in  a  heavenly  fold. 

But  in  our  loss  have  we  not  known 
A  greater  longing  for  a  friend — 
A  greater  blessing  to  extend 
To  those  forgotten  and  alone? 

Have  we  not  from  our  sorrow  wrought 
A  lyric  gift  of  power  for  men. 
And  by  the  crimping  of  a  pen 
Revealed  a  thousand  dreams  unsought? 

Have  we  not  closer  to  the  rose 
Crept  in  our  utter  loneliness, 
And  found  it  able  to  suppress 
The  heaviest  of  our  human  woes? 

Have  we  not  turned  beneath  the  pines 
And  found  the  better  side  of  life — 
The  cleansing  of  the  soul  from  strife 
Because  of  peace  where  hope  entwines? 

Have  we  not  found  that  virtue  lives 
Where  self  lies  buried  deep  in  tears — 
Where  service  crowds  the  weight  of  years. 
And  hope  brings  hope  to  him  who  gives? 

Have  we  not  learned  that  others  weep 
Beside  ourselves,  who  face  despair; 
That  others  too,  their  burdens  bear, 
While  up  the  rugged  heights  they  creep? 

Have  we  not  learned  that  by  life's  tears 
We  mould  the  art  which  others  hold — 
Which  nations  value  more  than  gold. 
When  counting  up  the  gain  of  years? 

(16) 


Have  we  not  learned  that  faith  will  bring 
The  fruitage  of  our  souFs  desire, 
If  we  but  face  the  burning  fire 
And  ^ill  our  "anvil  chorus"  sing? 

Have  we  not  touched  the  subtle  brings 
Of  soul  transcending  into  soul, 
And  known  the  beauty  of  the  whole 
Of  blessedness  which  sorrow  brings? 


Cbe  mn  of  a  Cittic  m\i 

F  THERE'S  one    small  thing    in    this 

great  world 
That  is  perfec5l,  and  undefiled, 
And  needful  in  lifting  a  fallen  man, 
It*s  the  voice  of  a  little  child. 

It*s  the  prattle  of  joy,  and  the  trusting  heart, 

The  gleam  of  delight  in  the  eye, 

That  can  bring  him  back  from  the  gates    of 

despair 
Where  the  hopes  of  the  childless  lie. 

So  of  all  things  pure   from  the  rose  to  the 

rue, 
0*er  which  we  have  wept  and  smiled. 
I  deem  that  the  purest  thing  on  earth 
Is  the  heart  of  a  little  child. 

(17) 


/n 


"^  'Vt^^'^^1 


trails 


AN*T  you  hear  the  sheep  a-bleating 

In  the  open  glades  out  there 

Where  the  shades  of  night  are  creeping 
o*er  the  sand? 
Can't  you  feel  the  wind  upon  you 
As  it  rustles  up  the  leaves 
All  along  the  open  trail  to  lonesome-land? 
Can't  you  hear  a  collie  barking 
In  a  shallow,  dry  ravine, 
Where  he  guards  the  flock,  and  leads    them 

on  their  w^ay? 
And  a  horseman's  cheery  whi^le 
Floating  out  across  the  range 
In  that  old,  familiar,  plaintive  sort  o'way? 
If  you  can't,  then  how'd  you  ever 
Hope  to  get  acquainted,  friend. 
With  the  We^,  and  we^ern  places, 
Like  the  trail  to  "Rainbow's  End?" 

(18) 


Can't  you  hear  the  night-birds  crying 

To  their  mates,  and  can't  you  hear 

The  lone,  weird  whine  of  some  brush-prowl- 
ing bea^, 

Creeping  up  across  the  spaces 

Of  the  green,  and  fertile  glades, 

As  the  shades  of  night  grow  deeper  in  the 
East? 

Can't  you  see  the  hungry  cattle 

Cropping  grass,  and  can't  you  hear 

Occasionally  a  bellow  from  the  herd, 

When  a  dog  slips  in  among  them 

And  from  the  tangled  weeds 

Disturbs  the  peaceful  slumber  of  a  bird? 

If  you  can't,  then  you  are  needing 

What  we  "riders"  call  a  change. 

And  I'll  bet  my  "chaps"  that  ere  you  come  to 
die. 

You'll  be  wanting  those  green  hollows. 

And  the  glades  in  lonesome-land. 

Where  there's  gray  and  crimson  colors  on  the 
sky. 

3 

Can't  you  hear  the  gentle  ripple 

Of  the  water  in  the  ^ream. 

When  your  pony  ^ops  to  drink  and  paw  the 

sand? 
Can't  you  see  the  moon's  reflection 
In  the  ^ill,  unruffled  pools. 
Where  you  pick   your  way  across  the  Rio 

Grande? 
Can't  you  see  the  camp-fire  gleaming 
In  the  distance,  where  the  boys 
Have  shuffled  off  the  saddles  for  the  day. 
And  the  long  black  line  of  cattle 
Silhouetted  'gainst  the  sky. 
Which  at  even-tide  has  turned  to  ashen  gray? 

(19) 


If  you  can*t,  then  God  Almighty 

Must  have  sort  o*  crimped  your  soul 

When  he  left  you   with    us  in  this  Western 

Land; 
For  most  every  one  loves  nature. 
And  especially  the  trails, 
Which  lead  across  the  reaches  to    the  sand. 

(4) 

Can*t  you  hear  the  steers  a-stirring 
Ju^  at  dawn,  when  'cross  the  sky 
Creeps  the  light  which  turns  the  darkness  in- 
to day? 
And  the  rattle  of  the  gravel 
Where  a  rider  drops  across 
A  narrow  wash,  to  rustle  up  a  stray? 
Can't  you  see  the  smoke  ascending 
From  the  fires,  and  can't  you  smell 
The  bacon  which  is  being  served  up  hot? 
Can't  you  taste  the  sweet  aroma 
Of  the  coffee  on  the  coals 
Where  it  simmers  in  an  old  black  granite  pot? 
If  you  can't,  then  we^ern  pictures 
Aren't  for  you  at  all,  my  friend; 
And  its  "fifty  fifty"  even,  with  a  bet 
That  you  couldn't  tell 
The  color  of  an  "Arizona  mule" 
Nor  a  hair  rope  from  a  braided  lariat. 


(20) 


Che  California  l)ill$ 


T  SEEMS  as  if  a  ma^er  mind  had  told 
Of  all  your  beauty,  when  in  prose,  and 

rhyme, 
Our   Markham  traced  the  grandeur  of 
your  soul. 

It  seems  as  if  the  dusty  trails,  the  pines, 
The  craters,  and  the  treeless  domes  became 
Companions    to    the   whole,    wide    world    of 
men. 

It  seems  as  if  your  fern-strewn  glades,  your 

vales; 
Your  scented  lilies,  and  your  rippling  breams 
More  picturesque  grew,  and  dearer  to  us  all. 

But  even  Markham — ma^er  that  he  is, 
Has  never  done  you  justice.     And  no  pen 
Can  ever  tell  the  world  ju^  what  you  are. 

To  know  your  beauty,  men  must  come  and 

stand 
Beneath  your  rugged  summits,  and  must  feel 
The    w^ooing  winds  which  kiss  your  lips  at 

daw^n. 

Must  come  and    listen    to   your  murmuring 

pines. 
The  music  of  your  bird-life,  and  must  drink 
From  those    cool    springs    imbedded  in  your 

breast. 

Must  come  and  pluck  the  wild  flowers  from 

your  dells, 
The    berries   from  your   trailing  vines,    and 

taste 
The    choice^    fruits    from    orchards,   nature 

grown. 

(21) 


Ones  to  Stei^enson 


^  HEN  I  behold  the  fruitage  of  his  dream — 
Behold     and    marvel    at    his    whole 

life-scheme — 
Behold  and  grasp  his  subtleness  of  art, 
Flis  warmth  of  love,  and  tenderness  of  heart, 
I  bow  my  head;  as  many  have  before, 
And  weep;  because  I  see  his  face  no  more. 

I  know  'twere  be^  that  he  be  sleeping,  since 
No  health  he  had,  or  hopes  within  his  hour, 
Yet,  somehow  wish  that  he  were  dreaming 

still, 
So  needful  is  his  boon  of  lyric  power. 
But  since  he  sleeps,  sleeps  peacefully  at  la^, 
And  all  his  weary  hours  of  toil  are  pa^, 
Let  me  in  love — in  reverence,  if  it  be, 
Respedt  his  dream  of  immortality. 

Let  me  at  times  think  of  his  words  well  kept; 
His  words  of  love  o*er  which  we  all  have 

wept; 
And  oft'  at  eve,  let  memory  take  me  far 
To  Samoan  hills,  where  rests  his  wooden  bier. 

Yes,  let  me  read  his  writings  as  they  are 
So  full  of  virtue,  force,  and  heavenly  fire. 
Let  me    with    praise  — if  praise    denote    his 

worth, 
Give  honor  to  this  bard  of  blessed  birth. 


(22) 


Cittcoln 

HEY   called  him  "Old  Abe"  in  slavery 

days — 
"Old  Abe  Lincoln,"  the  homlie^,  queer- 
est, 
Most  obstinate  man  in  Washington,  D.  C. 

They  called  him  thief,  liar,  cut-throat, 
Backbiting  cur — friend  of  the 
Lowly  Negro. 

And  when  in  trying  years,  his  hands  were 

tied 
With  diplomatic  problems,  and  the  South 
Rebelled  against  his  wishes  for  free  men. 
They  called  him  demagogue  and  traitor. 

But  if  he  heard  them  (which  he  did,)  and  if 
His  heart  was  broken,  not  a  word  revealed 
That  inner  sickness,  deeper  than  despair. 

And  if  the  furrows  deepened  in  his  face. 
His  eyes  went  dry  of  moisture,  and  his  hands 
Hung  limp  beside  him,  not  a  person  knew. 
Nor  dared  to  ask  the  meaning  of  his  grief. 

And  so  through  many  winters  of  defeat, 
Heartsick  and  weary,  torn  by  many  a  storm. 
He  labored  for  his  people  whom  he  loved. 

No  re^  was  his,  as  we  know  rest,  no  hope 
Save  that  of  vic5tory  dawned  upon  his  soul; 
And  laboring,  he  made  that  hope  his  stay. 

But    doomed  to  disappointment,  doomed  to 

die 
Ere  vicftory  came,  he  made    his   peace  with 

God; 
And  left  us,  never  knowing  that  we  wept. 

He  left  us,  never  knowing  that  his  grave 
(23) 


Would  be  the  one  spot  in  a  nation's  heart 
Where  men    would  come  to  weep  at  even- 
tide. 

He  left  us,  never  knowing  that  the  flag 

He  loved  the  be^,  would  be  entwined  about 

His  sacred  tomb,  a  symbol  of  his  deeds. 

"Old  Abe  Lincoln,"  plainest,  braved. 
Most  honored  man  in  America. 


Cbe  €all  of  tu  mm 


HE  breath  of  the   wind    on    the   open 

ship 
Blowing  steadily,  strong  and  free. 
Has  a  touch  of  life  for  the  sailor  lad 

And  a  call  of  the  sea  for  me. 

Has  a  call  so  strong  that  I  seem  to  hear 

The  waves  as  they  come  and  go. 

And  the  boatswain's  call  on  the  morning  air 

Of  "heave-o!  my  lads  heave-o!" 

And  the  roll  of  the  ship, 

And  the  cry  of  the  gulls. 

And  the  voices  of  happy  men. 

All  luring  me  back  to  the  open  tide, 

I  answer  the  call  of  the  wind. 

I  answer  and  wish  that  for  one  more  trip 

I  could  breathe  of  the  salt  of  the  sea; 

Could  tug  at  the  ropes,  the  wheel  and  the  sail. 

In  relief  of  my  revery, 

(24) 


Cbe  JtnUm  of  Olar 


UINS,  ruins,  ruins, 
That  is  the  fruitage  of  war; 
Ruins,  ruins,  ruins. 
Conspicuous  everywhere. 

Ruins  of  church  and  of  palace. 
Ruins  of  hves  in  the  bud; 
Ruins  of  souls  in  the  making. 
Ruins  of  sweet  mother-hood. 

Ruins  of  love  and  of  laughter. 
Ruins  of  homes  that  were  free; 
Ruins  of  music  and  pleasure. 
Ruins  of  sweet  liberty. 

Ruins  of  art  gone  forever. 
Ruins  of  flowers  in  the  dew; 
Ruins  of  books  in  the  binding, 
Ruins  of  faith  for  the  few. 

Ruins  of  cities  and  nations. 
Ruins  of  workshop  and  den; 
Ruins  of  armies  and  navies. 
Ruins  of  factories  and  men. 

Ruins  of  souls  meant  for  worship. 
Ruins  of  dreams  thrown  away; 
Ruins  of  girl-hood  and  boy-hood. 
Ruins  of  hopes  in  decay. 

Ruins  of  science  and  study, 
Ruins  of  virtue  and  smile; 
Ruins  of  kindness  and  kisses, 
Ruins  of  labor  worth  while. 

Ruins  of  ideals  and  worship. 
That  is  the  fruitage  of  war; 
Ruins,  ruins,  ruins. 
Conspicuous  everywhere. 

(25) 


Cbree  c;onteitiporarie$ 


HEN  Leon  Masters  wrote  those  unique 

poems, 
About  "Spoon  River,"  and  denied  that 
death 

Held  victories  over  life  and  natural  law, 
He  crept  into  the  annals  of  the  press, 
A  national  figure,  born  to  wield  new  dreams. 

When  Rupert  Brooke,  "A  God   in  Flannels'* 

turned 
From  home   to  fight  for  England,  and   was 

killed; 
The  memory  of  his  name  became  a  theme 
For  lovers  of  verse  libre,  and  of  prose. 

When    Amy  Lowell  came  to  us  with  those 

poems 
Entitled,  "Patterns,"  and"  A  Faery  Tale," 
We  lovers  of  the  muse  took  up  our  pens 
And  wrote  in  English: 
"Verse  survives  again." 

And  so  it  is,  that  in  the  blossoming 

Of   years  made  new,  by  singers    born — not 

made! 
There  springs  new  life  into  our  worth-while 

dreams. 

There  springs  new  life  about  the  silent  lanes. 
The  scented  meadows,  and  the  rivers,  where 
We  once  stood  mute,  and  knew  no  songs   to 
sing. 

There  springs   new  life  among  the   shifting 

crowd 
KDf  toilers,  and  among  the  girls  and  boys. 
Whose  tears  co-mingle  when  a  poem  is  read. 

(26) 


Can  praise  enough  be  given  then  to  those 

Three  inspirative  singers,  who 

Have  charmed   us  all,  with  their    immortEJ 


songs? 


man 

E  FIRST  ran  wild.     A  savage! 

And  unlearned. 

He  ^ood  in  fear  of  every  living  thing. 

He  had  no  clothes,  no  home,  no  remedies, 

No  implements 

Wherewith  to  till  the  ground. 

He  had  no  plans,  no  aims,  and  life  at  be^ 
Was  merely  consciousness 
Of  time  and  place. 

He  had  no  sails,  no  ships,  and  little  knew 
That  oceans,  lakes  and  rivers 
Were  his  friends. 

But  he  had  something  greater  than  all  these: 

Capacity  for  growth.     Eventually 

The  shelter  of  the  trees  became  his  home. 

The  flint  gave  forth  its  light,  a  tiny  flame 
Of  fire  revealed  new  wonders 
To  his  mind. 

The  fish  among  the  reeds  became  his  food; 

And  taking  skins 

He  clothed  his  nakedness. 

(27) 


His  thoughts  matured,  he  grewi 
And  in  due  time 
Became  the  ma^er  over  all 
The  earth. 

And  thus,  at  la^,  he  grew  into  a  soul — 
A  living  atom,  born  for  greater 
Deeds. 

A  my^ery  then,  we  find  him, 
Closely  linked  to  poetry;  and  to  all 
Those  marvelous  dreams  which  live  in  love 
And  art. 

Thus,  was  he  born  for  everla^ing  life — 
Life  everla^ing;  and  his  future  dreams 
Will  be  new  songs,  new  art,  and 
Worth-while  creeds. 


Che  my  of  tbe  UJmt 


HEN  there's  never  a  bird  in  the  outer 

sky, 
Nor  a  horseman  upon  the  sand, 
Nor  a  breath  of  wind  on  the  lone,  still 
waste 
Of  the  desert,  or  lonesome  land, 
It  is  gloomy,  and  ^rangely  desolate; 
Revealing  the  soul's  despair 
Of  a  leaf,  of  a  bug,  of  a  blade  of  grass. 
Charred    and    tinged,    'neath   the    sun's    red 

glare; 
And  yet,  there  are  times  when  one  seems  to 

want 
The  haze  of  a  desolate  dawn. 
The  lurid  glare  o'er  the  open  trails. 
And  the  sage-brush,  farther  on. 
For  the  way  of  the  wa^e  is  Grange  to  man! 
So  strange,  that  it  seems  to  brood; 
And  to  call  him  back  to  that  lone,  lone  land 
Of  ^illness  and  solitude. 
He  may  know  that  the   grass  w^ith  its  fading 

sheen 
Before  him  is  dead,  and  that 
The  snake-like  trail,  he  is  on,  will  end 
Out  there  in  a  barren  flat; 
He  may  know,  also,  that  a  blinding  ^orm 
Will  threaten  him  on  the  sand, 
But  still  he  will  want  the  empty  glades 
And  the  shadows  in  "No  Man's  Land." 
He   will   want    the    gloom    of    the    mantled 

nights, 

(29) 


And  the  lone  stars  which  gleam  like  pearls; 

He  will  want  the  cry  of  a  wandering  bird, 

And  the  land  where  the  brown  smoke  curls; 

For  the  way  of  the  waste  is  strange  to  man! 

So  strange,  that  it  seems  to  brood; 

And  to  call  him  back  to  that  lone,  lone  land 

Of  stillness  and  solitude. 

He  may  know  that  its  breath  is  the  breath  of 

death, 
Out  there  'neath  the  crimsoned  sky, 
But  even  so,  he  will  want  the  range, 
The  chalk  and  the  alkali. 
He  will  want  the  slate,  and  the  mica's  glare. 
The  grease  wood,  and  brown  mesquite. 
He  will  want  the  shimmering,  miraged  lakes, 
And  the  sweltering  summer  heat. 
He  will  want  the  ripple  of  eddying  sand. 
Soft-blown  o'er  the  grass  and  stones. 
He  will  want  the  smell  of  the  prickly-thorn, 
And  the  sun-bleached  cattle  bones; 
For  the  way  of  the  waste  is  strange  to  man! 
So  strange,  that  it  seems  to  brood; 
And  to  call  him  back  to  that  lone,  lone  land 
Of  ^illness  and  solitude. 
He  may  know  that  the  whine  of  a  skulking 

dog 
Farther  on  in  the  scrawny  sage, 
Will  cause  him  to  feel  the  lonesomeness 
And  the  drouth  of  the  mesa's  page; 
But  a  coyote's  cry  'cross  the  broad  expanse 
Of  sand,  in  a  barren  spot. 
Will  never,  it  seems,  turn  him  back  again 
From  the  * 'country  that  God  forgot," 

(30) 


For  the  way  of  the  wa^e  is  strange  to  man! 
So  strange,  that  it  seems  to  brood; 
And  to  call  him  back  to  that  lone,  lone  land 
Of  stillness  and  solitude. 


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MAR  21 1918 


MAY 


1939 


3    ^939 


JUNiT     11 


50m-7.'16 


I  v-'       I  ^vJO  I 


;jr,270 


UNIVERSiry  OF  CAUFORNIA  UBRARY 


